Non-linear, a dream in many parts yet all the same part. A place that could be called a wonderland.
A walk up a long ramp, a balding Bartolomeo de Las Casas or Samuel Tonsure is there among rough-hewn and brightly painted railings, tables, chairs, like being in cuckoo clock made in Mexico. He is St. Jerome, as far as I know, but his bald head and toga remind me of Aeschylus. Though he is an old teacher, because of the strange non-linear nature of this dream (all is happening at once, or can be re-ordered) I’m able to provide learning to him. It is settled at some point that we are something like the same person, if time-dislocated… I am to become him, or him me.
South Park kids are in this dream too. Perhaps they are leading a philosophical insurrection, or turning the hands of a clock that does not itself move, but moves all the time around it. This is the pivot, and the story returns to St. Jerome, who through further work is now a glossy porcelain dinner tray. His venerable cranium emerges from a moat, a bit like a well-heeled origami boat.
It was a late night and I slept between my wife and a friend. Something like a distillation of beliefs, some out-of-bounds experience, a timeless time travel, suffused this dream. When I awoke I knew exactly what it meant (I still do) but not any words to describe or reflect its true structure. I had to wait for the opportunity to write it down, which was after I’d slipped unexpectedly into a fitful, hot nap in a replica Arctic hermit’s hut. On the undersized fur-covered bed, my foot jerked and kicked over a glass kerosene lamp, which shattered on the dusty floor. I cleaned it though, had the will to pay for it too. I’m suspicious enough to wonder about a subconscious motive for such an action…